


clash

by Legendaerie



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 13 Spoilers, Sparring, UST, suddenly feelings, this is a mood whiplash mess and i just want to be FREE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 22:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8686411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: Banter, buried issues and a little bit of swordplay; Washington takes the wrong things seriously, sometimes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know, i don't know. was gonna be a kiss meme prompt and it took a hard turn.

On second thought, maybe sparring out of armor with Tucker wasn’t the greatest thing Washington has ever done.

On first, however, it seemed very reasonable. Tucker’s keyblade may not be the only one, and he needs to learn how to fight in close range. Washington has had plenty of training in pugil sticks and hand to hand combat, and he’s still technically recovering from an injury to his throat. He’s got the skills, he’s got the time, and he’s certainly got the energy - why the fuck not?

The fuck not is the fact that he’s fucked not, and Washington doesn’t really realize how much he’s been neglecting that aspect of his life until he sees Tucker waltz into the room in a tank top and sweatpants held up with what looks like repurposed parachute cord. Pure, bone-deep desire hits him like a kick in the gut, flooding his veins like gasoline, and he turns back to his punching bag with a new, desperate ferocity. 

Shit.

“You look like you’re working out something,” Tucker says slowly, stepping into Washington’s line of sight beyond the punching bag. He’s holding a replica of his key sword, twin points digging into the mat between his feet as he leans forward and cocks an eyebrow. “Want me to come back later?”

_ I’d like you to come on my back later _ , his brain supplies, unhelpful as usual, and Washington jars his arm with the force of his next punch. “You’re fine,” is all he grits out, ripping off the velcro straps on his gloves and flinging them aside.

The thing that’s really difficult about the key sword is that it’s an alien weapon, and no popular form of human swordplay can be adapted easily to fit it. It’s like a shield fused with brass knuckles fused with a lightsaber, and so far their main method of practice has been ‘just whale away at each other until someone gets a point.’

Washington wants to be better than that. (Washington also wants to sweep Tucker’s legs out from under him, slam him into the mat, and rut against his thigh, but that’s irrelevant.) He’s been studying, even, and so instead of grabbing a staff or a prop shield or anything else, Washington pulls out a second replica sword from the bin of practice weapons.

“One touch, one point,” he says, and does a couple last stretches. 

Tucker eyes the sword. “Doesn’t matter where?”

“Nope.” Washington grinds his teeth together and steps into a ready position. Waits just long enough for Tucker to roll his eyes and raise up his own sword before he strikes, viper-fast. “Point,” he says, and Washington doesn’t  _ crow  _ but he does relish the way Tucker’s mouth sets itself in a knife-sharp line.

“Jackass.”

Washington expects an instant retribution and is already raising his replica sword to block Tucker’s swing when Tucker lunges for his shoulder. For a few minutes, the training room rings out with the clash of plastic on plastic, the scuffle of bare feet on padded mats, and the occasional curse of triumph or fury. Neither of them are that good, honestly, so eventually the room bleeds out of other people as Washington and Tucker’s ‘ring’ expands with the aggression in their fight. Equipment becomes obstacles and cover as they improvise, hounding each other around the room.

The last person leaves with a bloody nose from Tucker’s elbow from when he’d tried to block one of Wash’s overhead swings. Washington refuses to let a little flash fantasy of taking advantage of the solitude build, and a few seconds later raises his hand to signal a break.

“Take a br--  _ ouch _ ,” and he jerks his hand back, fingers smarting from one last smack, “I said stop.”

“Getting old?” Tucker asks, even though he’s sweating and breathing hard. His eyes still have some of that dark sparkling anger to them, tense at the edges even as he smiles, obviously enjoying the fight.

Washington shakes the sting out of his hand and doesn’t dignify that with a response, popping open the nozzle of his water bottle with his teeth. Swallowing still aches, especially with big gulps, so when Tucker suddenly squeezes the water bottle and water jets down the back of Wash’s throat, he coughs and splutters all over the mat.

“What is your  _ problem _ ?” Washington demands, some part of him already knowing that the answer is ‘ _ because Tucker’s a dick like that. _ ’ But the rest of him is wound tight, ready to be at Tucker’s throat in more ways than one, itching to tackle him and tangle together until they’re breathless and spent. 

And, predictably, Tucker just shrugs and squirts some of Washington’s water bottle in his mouth; sprays the rest over his head and shoulders and--

It hurts to swallow, enough that Washington closes his eyes from the ache as he does it, but the after-image of Tucker’s silhouette against the fluorescent lights is burned into his lids. He drags one hand down his face, wiping sweat and water off his scarlet cheeks. If he looks at Tucker, he might do something stupid and juvenile in retaliation. Again.

He opens his eyes anyway, just in time to watch Tucker smack him in the thigh with his replica sword. 

“C’mon, let’s go, I still got shit to do--”

It’s Washington’s turn to dart in close, knock Tucker’s sword aside once, twice, three times and shove the blunted edge of his weapon against Tucker’s throat. They’re close enough that he can feel Tucker’s surprised huff as a gust of air against his mouth, and watch Tucker’s eyes flick fractionally down.

“You’re not the only one who can play dirty,” Washington growls, his voice pitched low and  rumbling , the promise of lightning in his consonants. Temper and lust are not a good combination, but duty overrides all else and Tucker's frivolity is starting to piss him off.

Tucker’s voice bubbles with a barely contained chuckle, dark eyes evidently drinking him in. “Wow, dude. You are not fucking around today, are you?”

Washington takes a step back, stance slipping from offensive to defense, as he awaits Tucker’s counter. “Why would I be?” he asks, sword held up between them. “This is serious.”

Tucker seems to study him, amusement seeping out of his body with every passing second. “Well, yeah, but...”

“You’re the key holder. You’ve got a target on your back now, more than ever. We’ve gotta keep you safe,” he reminds Tucker, unwilling to drop his guard.

“Oh,” Tucker says, and his expression locks into a mask as firm as if he’d pulled his helmet on. He lashes out fast enough that Washington’s block wavers, blades hovering at his cheek before he pushes back. 

From there, the match is… different. Tucker is quiet; there’s no anger in his strikes but no heat either. No passion, and Washington scores three points to each of his. He’d thought he’d welcome Tucker taking this seriously, but his performance is actually worse.

Washington can feel the seeds of bruises all along his legs and arms when he sends Tucker’s replica sword flying across the room and trips him to boot. It’s not satisfying to put his heel between Tucker’s shoulder blades and press his plastic blade, gentle as a kiss, against the back of his neck. Sexual frustration is only fraying his temper now, without any of the dark satisfaction of skin to skin contact, and when he steps back Tucker stays down.

“Get up, Tucker,” Washington says, and expects Tucker to plant his palms on the mat and lever himself to his feet with a smart remark. Instead he rolls onto his back away from Washington and drapes an arm over his eyes, tilting his head to bury his nose in the crook of his elbow.

“Can’t make me.” His words are childish, but his tone is flat and blank. Washington taps him again with the sword and Tucker grabs it, yanks it out of Washington’s hands with a sharp jerk, and flings it across the room to clatter against his own.

This was definitely not the best idea Washington has ever had. 

He doesn’t consider himself to be a guy who’s good at the whole positive reinforcement thing. Violence might have put him into this mess in the first place, and a reassuring hug is probably not the best thing when  _ want  _ is still simmering under his skin, overlaid on his thoughts like tinnitus. He looks around one last time, hopeful that someone else might show up to say the right thing to get Tucker up.

No such luck. Washington crosses his arms, tilts his head to the ceiling as he wracks his memory for encouraging phrases, and throws out the first one he recalls.

“You’re not sucking that hard.”

Silence. Not so much as a  _ ‘chicka _ .’

“You won’t improve unless you keep at it.”

A sigh, at least, one that sounds like it welled up from deep within his soul. Washington latches onto that reaction and keeps going.

“Skill at anything just takes time, Tucker. I have faith that you can--”

“That I can beat Felix in hand to hand? Beat Locus?” Tucker snorts. “Don’t give me that shit. I know my limits, Wash, and they’re out of my league.”

He’s right. Washington presses his lips together in a pout and tries a different angle. “We just want to make sure that you can use your sword effectively in combat. If you die out there, and we lose that artifact, we could lose everything.”

“I know, okay? I fucking  _ know _ . Give me some credit here,” and Washington looks down to see that he’s rolled onto his side and is staring across the room. 

Washington gives up on hauling Tucker back to his feet for more sparring and drops to the ground beside him  on one knee . If talking doesn’t work, maybe he should just listen.

“So what’s wrong?”

Another sigh. “It’s kind of stupid.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?”

No soft laughter, no shake of his shoulders. Tucker just lays there, and if he can feel the way Washington’s eyes sweep down the curve of his spine, study the subtle glossing of drying sweat on his bare arms, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I wonder,” he says softly, “if there’d be a way to give the sword away. I don’t wanna die, but-- if there was just some way that someone better could have it, keep it safe, then… Maybe I should, you know?”

Once again, the depth of Tucker’s heart surprises him. The thought of Carolina killing Tucker like some horrible ritual sacrifice; of he himself pressing the barrel of a gun to the underside of Tucker’s jaw crashes over Washington like a tidal wave, drowning him.

He wants to say he couldn’t do that to someone, but he could. He’s seen it happen firsthand, with the Dakotas and the Meta; hell, he tried doing it with the Reds and Blues once. But that was before, and Washington doesn’t ever want to go back to that version of himself.  And he won’t, because he’s been on the other side of it, too.

“You’re not--” the breath catches in his throat, burns with the force of how important it is that Tucker know this because for years Washington felt the same way, “you’re not just something to be  _ used _ .”

For a few seconds, Tucker doesn’t move. Washington bites his tongue, restraining several uneasy take-backs and apologies. Maybe he’s being a little dramatic, a little too sentimental, but this matters. Tucker matters, and for more than his key sword or his pick up lines or any one talent or skill. He matters because he’s Tucker, and he’s Washington’s friend.

“And if it’s the only way?” Tucker asks, still staring at the far wall.

No hesitation this time. “Then we’ll find another.”

Tucker flops onto his back, expression soft, the back of his hand tapping Washington’s thigh as he looks up at him. “Thanks,” is all he says, reaching up to trail his fingers up along the side of Washington’s jaw.

“Uh,” he stutters, mouth going dry as his thirst returns in full force, “well, you’re-- you’re really-- welcome.”

Tucker’s fingers brush his temples, pushing up bangs weighed down with sweat; and Washington has the split-second realization that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong when Tucker bites his lower lip around a grin. By then it’s too late, and with a thunk, Tucker flicks him in the dead center of his forehead. 

He rocks backward onto his ass, palms slapping on the mat to catch himself, and Washington gapes as Tucker gets back on his feet.

“Okay, that’s enough stupid feelings for one day,” Tucker says, linking his fingers and stretching the tendons in his wrist. “Let’s hit each other some more.”

“Nice emotional maturity you’ve got going there,” he says, though he really should have seen it coming. It’s not like Tucker was actually going to kiss him.

He’s kneed in the back, and looks up to see an echo of that open, honest expression on Tucker’s face. “Get off your ass, Wash. I’ve got some points to make up.”

Washington rubs the sore spot with his fingertips and glares at him. “Eleven, if you want to tie me up. Tie us,” he amends, hand still on his face. “Tie the score.”

“Didn’t know you were into that kinda shit,” purrs Tucker, turning no doubt to fetch the swords and prod Washington some more.

He grinds his teeth and contemplates being the bigger man for exactly two seconds, then lunges out and yanks Tucker’s ankle. With a yelp and a thud, Tucker eats gym mat.

His satisfaction is short lived, however, when Tucker tackles Washington before he can get up and tries to pin him in the least efficient way ever. Which is about when the doors open, and Carolina walks in on Washington straddling a face-down Tucker, one of Tucker’s arms twisted behind his back.

“God,” she exclaims, tone heavy with vehemence and resignation, and slams the door on her way over to the punching bag.

Skin tingling with heat and drying sweat, Washington pants against the back of Tucker’s neck for one long, guilty moment.  “That could have been better,” he says at last, carefully untangling himself from Tucker’s legs only to be shoved off balance one last time. But Tucker has the decency to offer him a hand up, and throws him one last look when they part ways outside.

"Could have been worse, too," Washington says to himself, and slinks off for a well needed shower.

 


End file.
